I stare down at my red wrap dress, a soft flowy bow at the waist, a deep V neckline with a snap that holds it together at the swell of my cleavage. The bell sleeves and fluttery hem, paired with chunky heel boots, turn my not-so-substantial cup size busty, accentuate my wide hips, and make my legs look a mile long.
We both brought our seductive wardrobe A-games, and for a moment I wonder if Jonathan suspected me of the very thing I suspected him of, too.
What a pair we make.
“I’ll be okay,” I finally answer him. Jonathan hasn’t opened his eyes. “Fair’s fair. I answered. Now you.”
He shakes his head side to side. Slowly, I walk toward him, each clack of my boots on the warm wood floors an echoing heartbeat. And when I stop, placing us toe to toe, I realize we’re standing beneath mistletoe.
Slowly, Jonathan opens his eyes. But he won’t look down at me. He stares up at the mistletoe hung above us, golden ribbon tied around it.
And for a moment, I have the ridiculous thought that I would love nothing more than to kiss Jonathan Frost until the end of time.
But even with my newfound confidence that he’s not playing dirty, not attempting to Casanova me right out of my dress and into unemployment, our rivalry still stands. Even if we aren’t the vilest of enemies like I thought we were, our goals are still fundamentally opposed.
And then there’s my greatest reason of all. My online friend, the guy who’s wanted to meet me for months, who I’ve wanted to meet, too. The good, kind, nerdy Mr. Reddit.
I can’t let myself forget that. I can’t daydream about kissing Jonathan Frost at work or in my bed or outside on a snowy day. I can’t lust after him. Not when I have less than two weeks to kick his ass and close out the year with record sales. Not when Mr. Reddit’s almost within reach.
Finally, Jonathan lowers his eyes until they meet mine. I have never seen someone try so hard not to stare at my breasts. “Miss Di Natale.”
“Yes, Mr. Frost.”
He glances back up at the ceiling. “You keep spare clothes here, don’t you?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I need to know what it will take for you to change out of that dress, and into those clothes.”
I snort a laugh. “But I’m comfy. I don’t want to change.”
He sighs like he knew I was going to say that.
“Unless…” I pop a hip and tap my chin, feigning thought.
He lowers his gaze until it settles on my mouth. “Unless what?”
“Unless…you forfeit a day of sales to me.”
His eyes snap up and meet mine, fire flashing in them. “Back to that damn bargain of yours, are we?”
I shrug, hoping I look more nonchalant than I feel. My heart’s pounding. “It’s your bargain, too,” I say coolly. “You agreed to it.”
He laughs emptily, shaking his head. The arrogant condescension of his response trips a wire in me.
“I’m not sure what’s so amusing about our bargain and what’s at stake, Mr. Frost. Is the situation somehow beneath you? Am I being ridiculous, holding us to it? Maybe I’m supposed to set aside our understanding since we got a little carried away last night and because you stuck up for me this morning while I dealt with my creep of an ex—the same guy who, I’ll let you in on a little secret, was the last person I made the mistake of trusting to have the best intentions and nearly sabotaged my career.”
Jonathan levels me with the coldest look I’ve ever seen from those wintergreen eyes. “Perhaps, Gabriella, you might consider that not everyone is a morally bankrupt prick like Trey Fucking Potter. But of course, by all means, hold on to that bargain. Throw it in my face every moment we go anywhere beyond mere civility, and certainly don’t let anything like the past twelve hours, let alone the past twelve months, get in its way.”
He pushes off the wall and steps toward me, until our chests brush and we’re face to face, sharing heated, livid glares. “God forbid you trust me,” he says, “or think well of me or allow for the even slightest possibility that making you miserable and jobless isn’t my life’s calling. No matter what I do or say, Gabriella, you see only what you want: a villain.”
“And why shouldn’t I? Am I missing something? Did you or did you not come into this shop twelve months ago, level me with one cold, disdainful glance, and then proceed to systematically criticize everything I was doing wrong, scoffing at my—yes, I’ll admit, somewhat chaotic—methods, and time and again poking a hole in my every creative idea for how to give this place a fighting chance because it wasn’t a ‘data-driven’ approach? Did you or did you not agree to secure your place as sole manager here after the new year by outstripping me in sales?”